


Bloodstains

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward looks best in bloodstains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodstains

**Author's Note:**

> blackwoodcoward fic exchange piece for linndechir, who wanted bloodplay and knives, with a bit of underestimating Coward thrown in. And no unhappy endings. :)

Coward has proven himself to be obedient, willing, and in the end that's why Blackwood chooses him for the ritual. Because he knows what to expect from Coward, because he knows his orders will carried out swiftly and carefully and correctly and without question; what more could any master ask from his servant?

It has nothing to do with the crooked set of Coward's smile when he's amused by something, something that no one else seems to see.

Coward performs his tasks as anticipated, every word flawless and clear, every movement precise, never a moment of hesitation, and the ritual rings truer than any Blackwood's preformed before. There's something utterly rapturous about the way their voices fit together, the way he turns and Coward is there, waiting without ever hovering, anticipating his needs the barest second before Blackwood even realizes he has them.

When their sacrifice shakes off the dulling effects of the drug for one instant, stiffens on the marble of the altar and gasps, flails about and almost knocks over several candles, Coward steps forward quickly and grasps the pale arms, pins them down to stone again and looks the young man in the eye. He whispers something Blackwood cannot hear, and the boy stares up at him, wide-eyed and trapped, prey, and stills, quivering. Coward smiles at him, a reward, but it never reaches his eyes, and he's still holding the sacrifice's attention when Blackwood steps forward and opens his throat.

The boy's mouth drops open, a terribly betrayed look on his face, and the blood sprays into the air, rich and wet and lurid, leaves a dripping spray across Coward's face, a sharp contrast to his skin. Anyone else would flinch, would jerk away with barely concealed disgust and no little fear; Coward leans in, sways on his feet as his eyes flutter closed, an expression of – of lust, almost – crossing his features.

Blackwood finds he only has eyes for one bloodstained young man.

Coward's lips part, stained, and he sighs softly. Opens his eyes the merest slit and gazes down at the dead body. His glance slides over, slowly, until he is looking sidelong at Blackwood, studying him, slyly. He catches Blackwood watching him staring, and the smile that spreads across his face is so different from the one he rewarded the boy with, starting deep in his eyes with a glint of mischief, spilling out on to his lips when it can no longer be contained, hovering just this side of manic.

Blackwood can't breathe.

Coward's smile widens, impossibly so, like there's something other worldly under his skin. He lets go of one pale, limp wrist; touches his fingers to the gaping wound of the boy's throat and brings them up coated in glinting vermillion. Turns them in the candlelight, teasingly, before he brushes them across the boy's cheek, tracing a symbol for resurrection. Negates it. Never glances at Blackwood, but Blackwood knows every move is designed to pull him in and he doesn't even want to bother with resistance.

Coward is stunning in bloodstains.

*

It's no real surprise that they end up in the same bed that night. Unexpected, perhaps, for Blackwood to finish bathing, dress long enough to stumble to his bedroom – only to find Coward, naked and lithe and half asleep on top of the duvet, hair curling wetly around his ears, sticking to his brow, and when Blackwood accepts the invitation of raised chin and parted lips and lidded eyes and kisses him, he can still taste the sharp bite of blood.

Unexpected, but hardly a surprise.

*

Blackwood can't help but notice the faintest flush that rises in Coward's cheeks every time he vows, the quick fire glance to the drops of blood staining the floor. Can't help but notice the half halt of breath, the darkening of his eyes, and it is with this in mind that he casually pockets one of the ritual athames.

Coward's eyes go wide when Blackwood brings it out that night, rests the tip against the rich dark wood of the desk and spins it in his fingers, catching the light with every turn, mesmerizing. He watches Coward watch it, with a hungry fixation that's enough to make Blackwood want as well.

He stops the blade with a touch – flips it, holds it carefully, blade against his fingers, and offers the hilt to Coward. Who takes it, with surprising hesitancy, a questioning quirk to his eyebrows. Blackwood tightens his fingers as Coward pulls the knife toward him, and is rewarded with a sharp pain across his fingertips, a gasp from Coward and a spatter of blood.

Coward reaches forward, eyes glazed and bottom lip caught between his teeth, as though he's about to grasp Blackwood' s fingers, and Blackwood clicks his tongue in disapproval; holds his bleeding hand up in an unmistakable 'halt'.

"Not me," he says. "You. Show me."

Coward stills; whimpers, bottom lip escaping his teeth, reddened and wet, and then he is shedding his shirt with unseemly haste, almost clumsy – but even now, he is never clumsy. He curls his fingers around the hilt of the knife, carved with arcane, meaningless symbols, and sets the edge to his skin. Trails it over the flawless expanse, not quite hard enough to draw blood, watching Blackwood, waiting, waiting, until it brushes his sternum; Blackwood stirs, an aborted movement, and Coward presses down. The knife lays open a perfect line of blood, and Blackwood draws a shuddering breath. Almost closes his eyes.

Doesn't.

Coward picks another spot, and another, the blood running sluggishly down his chest, his pupils blown wide, mouth open and panting, delicious. Blackwood can't take it any more; he reaches forward and presses his bleeding fingertips to one of the few pristine patches left, leaves an oddly shaped blossom of red. Coward groans.

"Off," Coward whispers. "Take them off. I want to see you."

Blackwood almost laughs at his broken request – demand – and indulges. After all, this is Coward's night.

Coward watches him closely, blade resting flat along the line of his collarbone, flicking every other moment. He waits until Blackwood is ready to settle back into his chair, and then says, thickly, "No." Nods his head toward the bedroom, and Blackwood smiles.

"After you," he says, and follows Coward's unmarked back. He'll have to do something about that.

"On the bed," Coward rasps, his voice so broken, so on edge that Blackwood can hardly believe it. He sits, leans back until he's resting on his elbows, still able to see Coward – who regards him with the knife pressed to his own throat, slowly opening the skin, lips parted in – anticipation, maybe, for he takes a step, and then another…

And then Blackwood is on his back, a heavy weight straddling his waist, something familiar and sharp at his throat. He freezes, stunned, unclear as to how he's gotten here. Coward is staring down at him with maddened eyes, almost drugged, hazed and starving. He slides the tip of the knife up, up the line of Blackwood's throat, digs it into the hollow under his chin. Digs until there's blood staining it, until Blackwood's wincing from the pain, and then – and then Coward laughs, delighted, sounding so young, so pleased.

"Oh, Henry," he says. "Have no fear." He smiles, too wide and too many teeth and far beyond unhinged; leans forward to press his lips to the mark he's made, smearing them with blood. Blackwood groans, swallows against the feel of those lips, and Coward – Coward –

Coward laughs again, warm puffs of breath against Blackwood's skin, and raises his head. "Have no fear," he repeats in a whisper, and presses his thumb to the bead of blood, runs it over Blackwood's bottom lip, teasingly. Pulls away and slides down Blackwood's body, his trousers almost harsh on Blackwood's over sensitized skin. His lips come to rest on one side of Blackwood's cock, the blade to the other. Blackwood's breath stutters out in something close to fear.

"Nicholas," he breathes. Coward ducks his chin, moves the knife to less vulnerable skin. Opens a line of blood on Blackwood's thigh in the same instant he takes Blackwood into his mouth, and Blackwood doesn't know which makes him moan louder. Coward's gorgeous like this, flushed with desire and power and something even more intangible, something that's spoken by all the ways his touch turns almost gentle, all the looks he gives that soften the edge of his eyes. It's something Blackwood isn't sure what to make of, so he ignores it, reaches down and catches a handful of mussed hair, fine and soft and dark, and pretends that his touch isn't more tender than demanding. Coward pushes forward, even more, more, and the head of Blackwood's cock bumps the back of his throat, muffling the small, desperate sounds Coward is making, is forcing through his nose as he swallows around Blackwood. Blackwood didn't expect that, and he's close, so close, if Coward doesn't … he takes a deep, shaky breath, reaches down with his other hand and fumbles at the sheets, searching until he finds the knife; nearly opens his fingers on it again, only his fingers haven't stopped bleeding and he knows he's left bloody trails on the sheets, caught in the chased silver of the handle.

Brings that hand up to rest against Coward's temple, the blade scraping the nape of his neck with every bob of his head. Once more, twice, and ah, ah, he was, oh, his hands tightening on Coward's head, and he remembers vaguely that there was a reason he shouldn't, shouldn't, and then he forces his hand open, frees the metal from his palm and Coward's skin.

When he opens his eyes again, after a blink that seems to have stretched on forever, Coward is curled next to him, drowsy and sticky and calm, his chin resting against Blackwood's shoulder. Blackwood raises a hesitant hand to the back of his head and encounters a wet mass of raw skin and hair, a wide, shallow scrape and he knows where it has come from. He pulls his hand away, perturbed, and Coward catches it. Brings it to his lips and licks the blood from his fingers. Blackwood slides his hand over the curve of Coward's cheek, smudging the defined drops high on his jaw, and smiles.

Coward still looks best in bloodstains.


End file.
